


The stars have turned cherry red

by SpicyWolfsbane



Category: IT - Stephen King, The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Dom/sub, Lots of gay sex, M/M, TW: Blood, Vampire AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-11-22 06:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyWolfsbane/pseuds/SpicyWolfsbane
Summary: While locked into his hotel room in Cireșoaia, up the north portion of Romania, Stan can't focus on his books and the bat pictures he took for his research. His mind is racing, thinking about the mysterious man he met the night before, another guest in the small hotel at the center of the circular village. He thinks about Boris and his blood boils. Will he see Boris again as the sun sets in the horizon?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [porcia_catonis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcia_catonis/gifts), [Evanaissante](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evanaissante/gifts).

> This wasn't proofreaded because I'm anxious. Once again, let me lecture you how stupid English is.  
In the Storis clan, as a part of the Storis Holy Trinity, I'm the Porn entity. So this is just Dani trying to put into a logical order lots of pornographic scenes with a sexy vampire and a dutiful (and also very sexy) researcher. So you've been warned: this is almost PornHub in a fanfiction format. 
> 
> I dedicate this to Marie (Angst) and Cat (Aesthetics) for all the love and validation they give me daily.

_ October 2nd 2019 _

_ Cireșoaia, Bistrița-Nădăud County, Romani_a

**PROLOGUE**

There’s a _szekler_ girl sat near the hotel front door when Stan approaches the small two-story building, almost out of breath, hands shaking.

She wears a white dress with a red apron, and she has a crown of flowers at the top of her light blond hair. She has a ragdoll in one hand, a basket with __r_ed cherries_near her left knee, and Stan thinks she’s probably ten years old, maybe older, but not more than twelve. She’s sat on the grass, legs crossed and she looks abnormally pale. She eyes him and Stan doesn’t know if it is because the sun is setting or if the little girl indeed has__ red__ eyes. He tries to not to run into the building, pulse-quickening.

Maybe she’s _older_.__

In fact, if he could choose, he would rather never put his feet inside the place, running away from the circular village, leaving all his stuff behind, going as fast as he could from_him_. But darkness approaches, and in the open field, he would be an easy prey.

He climbs the stone steps quickly, two at a time, his blood running cold as the girl’s giggles reach his ears. He was never that sure in his life that death was_in fact_around the corner, approaching him in the circle village. Cireșoaia is so far away from Bucharest, and Atlanta… If he dies there, no one will ever know.

Inside the dim-lit living room, he sees Zsófia cleaning a wooden table near the small cabinet full of bottles, the place in which he saw _him_ for the very first time a couple of days ago. She’s wearing a ruby bracelet, maybe too tight for her wrists. Stan can see the tiny jewels shining under the yellowish light from the chandelier. Like tiny droplets of blood around her pale skin.

That same jewel was with the smiley Australian tourist he talked to near the village’s small church, three days ago. A 23-year-old grad student, backpacking around Romania with her American boyfriend, in search of isolated places and some _Desmodus rotundus_ … They laughed about vampires and Stan recalls telling her that the place in which he was staying was quite decent.

Where’s her boyfriend? Was he called Andrew? Matthew? Does Zsófia have his silver watch too?

He feels rage boiling in his veins, almost storming to the middle-aged woman, who stopped her work to eye him, curiously. He wants to jump on her and look if she’s wearing another stolen object on her left wrist.

But she works for _him_, apparently. And he needs to go.

Because soon_ Boris_ will wake up and it would be Stanley’s turn to die.


	2. September 23rd, 2019

_ September 23rd, 2019 _

_8:00 pm, on the road, somewhere in Mureș County, Romania _

_ Dracu! _

Georghe’s fingers holding the steering wheel were white, a sharp contrast with his red cheekbones.

Stanley, hands holding the passenger's seat, would normally find it interesting to see the always so calm man that angry, his facial features twisted in rage. But dark clouds were furious above them, a pouring rain washing over the idyllic landscapes and the Toyota heading up North, to Bistrița-Nădăud County. It was supposed to be a relatively quick trip from Bucharest to the small village of Cireșoaia, a little more than 400km separating both places. They had stopped to lunch by Dobreşti and no longer after leaving the town, a light rain started to wash over the road.

It evolved to a raging storm by the end of the afternoon, to the point in which they could barely see the road in front of them, just blurred lights coming from the other cars. After trying to ask Georghe to stop and wait for the storm to wave off, being answered with grumbles and a murderous look, Stan decided to remain quiet, heart beating hard every time another vehicle crossed theirs or when Georghe refuse to slow the speed on curves. Stan was in a permanent alert state, scared of hydroplaning or being involved in a car crash. 

He was the guilty one and his temples were starting to ache.

He tried to think about the purpose of the whole trip and the prospects of being alone in a small village where most people were more used to speak Hungarian than Romanian. His basic and confusing Romanian skills were useful in the capital, with people being extra kind with the American man trying to communicate with locals in their language, smiling and giggling with his accent and enthusiasm to learn new words or slangs. 

The opportunity to explore a place like Cireșoaia was one in a lifetime. In the middle of Transylvania, the small village with a unique shape had lots of caverns in which some researchers from the University of Bucharest were developing interesting studies with some _Desmondus rotundus_, expressing genuine curiosity about Stan’s work. It was a field study that could improve the quality of his Ph.D. dissertation in a way that left him slightly dizzy. Too much for a nerdy boy like him to refuse.

Andrei, his doctoral advisor, was adamant that Stan should take the offer, as it was really impressive for it to happen only two weeks after his arrival in Romania. The village was really small and it didn’t have much to do, and people were mostly from Hungarian ancestry, but the scientific achievements he could have were worth the struggle to adapt in the place for ten days. Stan laughed about Andrei’s concerned expression (_I've been to Atlanta, Uris, you’ll die with boredom in Cireșoaia, but you’ll see it’s the right decision_). He wasn’t concerned. He couldn’t give a single _fuck_ about Atlanta anymore.

Georghe was another Ph.D. student under Andrei’s guidance. Coming from Timișoara, he liked to tease Andrei about his hometown being prettier than Bucharest, to which Andrei, face red after a few glasses of wine, would retort with an amused expression, listing a bunch of historical facts that made Stan felt like taking notes. It was during Stan’s reception at the small bar near the university, with the three of them huddled together in a small cabin, countless empty bottles of wine on the wooden table, that Georghe asked what brought him over to boring Romania.

Vampires, he shrugged, and both Andrei and Georghe rolled their eyes. Researching bats in _Transylvania_ because of vampires. Considering the country’s tales, that joke might be not as funny as it was back home in Atlanta. 

Georghe had black hair cut in a military-style and gentle blue eyes. He was funny and receptive, taking the role of being Stan’s guide in Bucharest. He would tell Stan about safe places to go and the ones he should avoid, leaving Stan a little scandalized after speaking poorly about _Romani_ people, which used to remind Stanley that he was now immersed in another culture with its own prejudices. 

He helped Stanley to find an apartment near campus and lectured him about the place in which Stan was about to go, saying that he had never been to Cireșoaia before, but stating that Transylvania as a whole was quite interesting, pointing with a playful wink that Stan would more likely find the vampires he was looking for. 

He was supposed to take a bus to the north, but Andrei insisted on driving him, to assure he would be welcomed properly and to introduce Stan to his fellow researchers already working in there. He also didn’t trust Stan’s Romanian skills that much, which left him slightly offended. Georghe was in charge to be the driver and the planned trip was to leave Bucharest no longer after 8 am, taking a detour to Bacău to pick up Andrei after an emergency trip, then heading north. But thanks to Stan’s phone changing its timezone back to Atlanta’s, he woke up past 10:30 am, with lots of missing calls from both Andrei and Georghe.

Still fumbling with his back, annoyed that his shoelaces weren’t tied the right way, he apologized to a smiling Georghe leaning on the Toyota’s window, teasing Stanley about the lack of respect the American guy had for his fellow Romanians. Stanley punched him lightly on the shoulder and grinned with how loud Georghe laughed

After almost two hours on the road, before crossing to Transylvania, Gheorghe asked him if he would like to stop for lunch, assuring him that as much late as they were, they could take a break, since the roads up north were calm during this time of the year. Andrei already knew they were late and he wasn’t exactly mad at them.

They stopped by the charming and small town of Dobreşti, and Georghe had fun watching him trying to communicate with a local, laughing at Stan’s confused face and complaints about the woman’s accent.

“Bye bye, Bucharest”, he teased and Stan just rolled his eyes.

“You keep teaching me wrong stuff, it’s your fault”.

They parked by an abandoned mill to rest after lunch and lost count of time. Not long after returning to the road, gray clouds disturbed a clear blue sky and by the time it turned into a storm, it was quite clear that they wouldn’t be able to go to Moldavia to pick up Andrei. Georghe’s playful smile left his face the moment he handled his phone to Stan, asking him to call the oldest man.

Andrei’s voice was controlled and reassuring, telling them it would be the best course of action, that going their way up to Cireșoaia under such heavy rain was already risked, it would make no sense for them to go pick him up in another county just to increase their travel time and the risks involved. He could take a bus in the morning and meet them in the village.

Georghe only nodded when Andrei hung off, his lips pursued in a thin line, eyes locked into the foggy vision in front of him. Stanley felt his cheeks hot.

_ September 23rd 2019 _

_11:15 pm, Apafi pensiune, Cireșoaia, Romania _

The sky was dark and melting above their heads, a cold and heavy stream of water washing his body as he stepped outside the car in front of a small two-story building with yellow lamps. There was no pavement other than slippery cobblestones. A strong hand grabbed his arm when Stan almost slipped in his task to reach for the hotel’s front door. Georghe grumbled something that Stan wasn’t able to understand due to the low volume of his voice and the deafening sound of the rain. He thought that Georghe was squeezing his arm with too much force and flinched.

As they stepped in, an old man sat in a nearby chair with a book was startled by their arrival. His eyes went wide behind his thick glasses and he gestured to the both of them, before standing, reaching to a door next to a wooden counter, speaking in a language Stan was more than sure to be Hungarian. It was definitely not Romanian. He searched for Georghe’s eyes, knowing that neither he could speak the language, being as useless as Stan in said matter. But Georghe didn’t look back to him, moving to a middle-aged woman as soon as she came from the adjacent room, looking at them from behind the hotel’s counter with curious eyes.

“_Scuzați_,” Georghe cleared his throat and Stan noticed that his teeth were chattering “_Vorbiți românește doamnă_?”.

The woman kept silent, eyeing them intently. She should have up to forty years old, not older to forty-five, with dark long hair in a braid, wearing a yellowish dress that once should’ve been white, with a black apron. It looked like a traditional clothe and Stan wondered if she was a _szekler_, a Hungarian ethnic group that, apparently, was the majority of the village’s population. The cold combined with the anxiety to know if he would at least be able to communicate in there left him uneasy.

“_Român_?” she pointed to Stan, looking at Georghe’s face with a blank expression. 

Stan felt uneasy. Before leaving for Romania, Mike lectured him that he could be an easy target for being not only a foreigner but an _American_. The village was small and he would spend some days alone in there, with the support of Andrei’s colleagues, but alone nonetheless. If it was a big deal from where he came from… 

“Speak a bit of English,” the woman smiled a little and maybe she had a golden tooth “University?”.

“Oh, yeah,” relief washed over Georghe’s face and he smiled for the first time since it was obvious they couldn’t get Andrei to travel with them. Stan felt a lot better, despite the cold and his soaked clothes “We’re here for…”.

“No, no, tomorrow you explain, you’re wet and is cold,” the woman rummaged through some drawers, taking two keys in hand and handing them to Geoghe, a motherly smile on her face “I’m Zsófia. You can sleep, sign papers tomorrow”.

“No, no, we can-”.

“I insist, dry ourselves. Is okay, in this village we’re all friends”.

“Okay…”, Georghe took both keys in hand and Stan swallowed hard “I’m Georghe, by the way. This is Stanley. He’s…”.

“American, right?” she eyed him and Stan felt uneasy again “American nose,” she giggled and Georghe eyed him with a mischievous small smile “Welcome to Cireșoaia. We’re all friends here”.

“Thanks…”

“Go, go to your bedrooms”.

“Oh, the car is parked-”.

“No, no problem. It’s raining, no one will come until tomorrow, is fine. Don’t be stubborn and go to your bedrooms. Dry yourselves,” she looked at Georghe like a loving, but adamant mother “I can serve you hot tea later. Don’t want to get sick”

“We don’t want to bother you, we’re going to be fine,” Stan felt his toes curling inside his soaked sneakers, Georghe’s eyes on him “We just need to dry and rest”.

“If needs tea, call me. Your bedrooms are upstairs, yours to the left,” she pointed to Georghe “Yours to the right. Nice windows”.

Stan felt Georghe’s hand on his shoulder, urging him to the stairs, they were both soaked and shaking and the last thing Stan wanted was to catch a cold. Zsófia instructed Georghe how to use the hot shower in his room before they climbed the stairs. 

The small hotel was silent inside.

_ September 23rd, 2019 _

_01:45 pm, inside a car, near an abandoned mill in the border of Dâmbovita and Brașov Counties, Romania _

It feels like Georghe doesn’t really know what to do with his arms and hands.

His left hand is around Stan’s torso, the right one holding his shoulder. A minute ago both of his calloused hands were on Stan’s hips, grabbing him fiercely, hips slapping against his ass. There wasn’t enough lube, there wasn’t enough preparation. Georghe is _big_ and his pace is brutal. Stan feels sore.

A sweaty chest presses against his back and he whines as the tip of Georghe’s cock hits violently against his prostate. He tries to muffle his noises with the back of his hand, unsuccessfully. His hard dick is dripping pre-cum into the backseat. It will stain the leather. It’s not like he cares, not to mention the car’s owner, balls slapping against his asscheeks, teeth biting his shoulder.

The car is too small for two grown men and the position isn’t exactly comfortable. He wants to spread his legs further apart, to feel more of that man, for him to go deeper. But pants are hanging in the middle of his thighs since Georghe didn’t let him take the time to undress properly.

His leather belt is around his neck, holding Stan to the seat headrest. He feels the buckle pressing his Adam’s apple and his dick throbs. He can’t go anywhere. It’s not like he wants to.

Georghe pulls away, breaking their messy hug, standing still inside Stan’s tight canal. He whines, trying to circle his hips for friction, earning a painful slap on his ass as Georghe giggles. His hips move on its own accord a second time, and Georghe slaps him again before grabbing his curls, pulling his head back. The belt holds him too close to the seat and Stan feels like he’s about to choke.

“No tricks, baby boy,” his voice is raspy and Stan whines “Do it again and I’ll stop”.

Stan tries to look behind, moving his head as much as the belt allows him. George’s torso is red, glowing with sweat. Stan loves the wild look on his eyes.

His hands carefully take the hem of Stan’s sweater, pulling it down, covering his scratched and sweaty back, and Stan flinches at the touch of the fabric on his hurt skin. With the sweater pulled down the air feels a lot hotter. Georghe strokes his cheekbones before thrusting again, all of a sudden, making Stan jump and scream.

It feels so different... Nothing like Bill’s boring _vanilla sex._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine Georghe as Sebastian Stan, once he's also romanian.  
You're welcome.


	3. September 24th, 2019

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took so much time for me to write... I want to punch you, Stanley.  
If you see any mistakes, let me know.

_September 24th 2019_

_08:30 am, Apafi pensiune, Cireșoaia, Romania_

_ _

The tiles are so cold it feels like a sharp bite on his cheekbones. However, Stanley leans further, the left side of his face pressed flush against the bathroom's wall.

He feels cold, _too cold_, damp curls plastered to his ivory forehead, lips pursued in a thin line, shoulders shaking, toes curling and uncurling… It's probably the first time since he arrived in Romania that the desperate feeling of seeking for __familiarity__ hits him in such a nauseating manner.

His heart is beating so fast inside his ribcage Stan can literally feel it at his throat, fighting for space inside his trachea, the sudden urge to bend and vomit almost overcoming his willpower. With a racing and loud mind, he tries to remember how his mother used to speak to him in _times like these_, her light green nightgown touching his tear-stained cheeks as he leaned over, hugging her to the point of hurting her lanky body, shivering and crying and squeezing her…

Stan tries to remember how her soft and comforting voice would say his name amidst a litany of generic soothing words, soft palms rubbing at the sides of his frame. She would tell him to breathe in through his nose, filling his lungs with air, then for him to exhale through his mouth, slowly, like he used to do as a kid to blow his birthday candles. After a few breaths, the conclusion that it was useless would eventually overcome him and the exercise would take an uncoordinated and desperate rhythm, a pang of pain as he tried to put much more air inside his lungs than what his organs could take.

His mom would remain there, the soft cadence of her voice muttering encouraging and calm words, whispered right into the conch of Stan's ear. She wouldn't squeeze his shaking figure in a hug, her voice wouldn't be an octave louder, rather embracing a monotone even mechanic sound, and her soft skin would feel cold, thin and bony shoulders as a nest for Stan's weeping eyes.

He squeezes the soft - __too soft__ \- towel hugging at his hips, his other hand gripping the doorknob, applying so much force until he feels the metal trembling on his hold. The door is locked, he tries to assure himself, the door is locked… He's all alone.

Fear pools on his lower belly and Stan feels a liquid agony bubbling up, finding its way up to his throat. He wants to punch the wooden surface of the door, but his hand remains on the doorknob, squeezing it to the point in which the metal starts to hurt his palms like cold sharp teeth sinking into his flesh. Through clenched teeth, his coughs sound horrifically wet and anguished. Moving his head, Stan presses his forehead against the wood, feeling tears running down his cold cheekbones, almost choking with the effort to contain the squeezing of his throat muscles on their task of sending bile up through his mouth.

He's all alone, he knows he's all alone. It's a fair share of disgusting sounds and muffled sobs to stress anyone around. No one is coming for him, he knows it. The hairs on his arms stand on end. He knows this is the path to calm down his nerves.

Stan stares at the floor tiles, an opaque tone of white, probably the result of endless washings with chlorine and bleach. It's clean, nonetheless, but it disgusts him. The lingering smell of fennel covers his nose, like some gloved gentle hand pressing its palm against his nostrils without enough force to hurt, but with the right amount of pressure to make him open his mouth involuntarily, in search for air. Staley almost stumbles on the cold damp floor in a swift motion, bending over the sink, feeling the bitter taste of bile as the urge to vomit wins over the peristaltic movements of his throat muscles.

The greenish foamy liquid quickly disappears down the drain, leaving some residues behind, tarnishing the whiteness of the marble sink. With shaking hands, Stan holds the tap, breathing heavily as the water washes over the remaining of his gastric juice. His forehead is damp with sweat and he shivers at the thought of taking another shower.

Rubbing his eyes, Stan curses over the lack of a mirror. He wants to see his face, he wants to see his wounds. He's more than sure that he looks outrageous and the last thing he wants if for Georghe and Andrei to lay his eyes on such a shattered figure.

Adjusting the towel on his hips, steading his breath, Stanley opens the door to his room, confirming his suspicions. He's all alone, but just _physically_. The bedsheets are perfectly arranged with no creases, pillows symmetrically organized, nothing like the disarray of covers he left right after he was_told _to take a shower. His blue sweater from the day before is neatly folded on the mahogany bedside table and Stan can spot his black slacks (folded as well) right below the sweater. His belt, on the other hand, is dangling from the bed's canopy and Stan winces at the sight.

Moving to his bag in a slightly limping motion, Stan drops the towel absentmindedly on the floor, his facial muscles flexing just a little, the corner of his lips curving upwards. He had brought a nice wooly green sweater and there were these washed jeans that would fit just perfectly with the olive green tone of his garment. Golden curls and brown sneakers, it would make up for a good appearance.

Whistling, Stan starts to dress himself, taking in his surroundings.

The room is quite big, with a high wooden ceiling with curious carvings. There is a chandelier in there, looking old and a bit rusty with what looks like to be candle compartments, but some definitely modern lamps are attached to it. It's a big round piece, probably made of iron, and Stan's eyes follow the chain with thick and rustic links that hold the chandelier to the ceiling beam.

The floorboards are made of some red-toned kind of wood that Stan had never seen before. Some brown spots blend with the dark red shade in cluttered patterns, but the surface is almost all of a crimson shade. Stan wonders if it's just a rosewood floor with lots of wax. The contrast of all of that red with his bare pale feet accentuates the bluish veins on his skin.

There are a curious amount of furniture inside the room and Stan, who would rather pick a much cleaner and minimalistic accommodation, can't help but feel fascinated by the medieval aura that radiates from the pieces in there. There are two bedside tables at each side of his bed, with curved short legs and silver drawer handles. The bed in itself is a four-poster king-sized piece, probably made of walnut wood considering its dark chocolate tone. From the canopy, delicate translucent white curtains fall to the ground, its ruffles touching the floor. Stan's trained eye catch a small red stain where the curtain touches the bedside table, a red drop, which is probably the wax they use on the floor.

Under the bed, a big squared wool rug, with navy blue borders around an intricate patch of red and golden geometrical figures. It's soft under Stan's feet and looks pristine clean. Another rug with the same print style, but round and smaller, is placed under a small circular table adorned with two chairs made of a light wood, probably golden oak or pine. The backseat looks like it's made of a dark green velvet fabric, and the armrest has a curled shape, ending in a soft curve near the seat. There's a delicate beige towel on the wooden surface, a small greenish glass vase with three white peonies over it. Stan feels his fingertips tingling.

A small wardrobe is placed at the opposite wall, large drawers, and sharp edges. Stan walks to it, hoping to find a mirror on the inside, but there's nothing. With his pants on and dressing up with his green sweater over a plain white shirt, Stan motions to the large windows hidden by soft but thick dark green curtains, hopeful to be able to see a bit of his reflex on the glass.

Like the old lady told him, the windows are indeed really pretty. They go from Stan's knees to the ceiling, large windows with a dark wooden frame. At the top, a mosaic pattern: small pieces of colored glass form the shape of roses and leaves, fruits (it looks like cherries) and even some birds. Stan considers stepping on a chair to analyze it carefully. As he slides the curtains open, he notices that the window right behind the small table is a full mosaic.

Small pieces of glass, held together by a delicate iron frame, assume the forms of a green scenery with trees and light green grass, a basket made of yellow shining pieces of glass is filled with round red cherries. There are tiny people around it, depicted in what looks like to be traditional peasant clothes. The amount of details is stunning and Stan can't stop looking.

There are women holding hands, their long white dresses touching the green ground under their feet, red and brown ribbons around their waists. He recognizes some cherry trees and brown birds on its branches. People carry baskets with cherries and at the top of the mosaic there is what looks like to be a small church with a stern gray cross at the top of it. Figures in black stand outside the building, girls in white and red in a line, looking like they're about to enter the building. One of the figures in black holds a basket with cherries.

Stan touches the mosaic in reverence, fingers ghosting over all the forms and colors. As his index finger brushes over the shape of a bird, Stan jumps a little after hearing a bird's noise. He frowns, staring at the window hasp. He's not so sure if he can open that window, if it's secure. The last thing he wants is to destroy such a work of art. He peers through the glass windows next to the mosaic, taking in the bright small feathered form of a Great Kiskadee resting on a branch outside his room.

His chest is bright yellow, a contrast to his brown wings and black and white striped head. Stan is awestruck, the bird wasn't supposed to be there, in Romania. But it is. It's undeniable what species of bird that one is. The bird moves, his incredible thin legs moving along the branch, focusing his small dark eyes on Stan. He tilts his head and Stan curses for not having a camera in hand. The bird keeps staring at him, bouncing his little head. When he opens his beak Stan swears he can see the crimson shade of the insides of his mouth.

The bird sings and a chill runs down Stan's body, from his nape to his toes. He bites his lip as the bird flies away, putting his head outside the window in a naive attempt to follow the bird's flight. There's no sign of him. Stan sighs, a soft breeze hitting his face. The air is different from Bucharest and Atlanta. It feels fresher, carrying notes of newly cut grass and sweet juicy fruits, brushing his face so smoothly… Stan feels reinvigorated. He keeps looking at the scenery that unveils outside his room. People walking around carrying shovels and plows, women with baskets with fruits and grains, kids running around with small dogs with wagging tails.

A smell of patchouli makes him blink and Stan sniffs, curious. He feels a light taste of cooper inside of his mouth and frowns. The feeling goes away as fast as it came. When he hears the engine of Geoghe's car, Stan rushes to close his window and leaves his room.

* * *

_6:00 pm, pasture fields, Cireșoaia, Romania_

Playfully, he hits Georghe's arm _again _and Andrei laughs loudly.

Stan has a big smile on his face, his curls bouncing along with the light breeze. On one hand, he holds his small black hardcover notebook, in which he scribbled down lots of ideas and suggestions coming from Andrei's friends. He has a smudge of black ink on his thumb and index finger, his careful handwriting for sure gave space to hideous chicken scratches due to the overwhelming flow of information he was hit with after presenting his research. But he's happy, waves of excitement making his knees shake. He holds his glasses on his left hand, eyeing Georghe and smiling, waiting for him to try to steal his turtle frames again. He wants to run along the golden fields, aimlessly.

The walk from the caverns back to Cireșoaia goes by in a comforting speed. They're walking for over half an hour at the margins of the unpaved road, talking about the lamb with grapes they had for lunch, how Stan should buy new glasses, the shape of a bat's wings and the heavy rain that washed over them the day prior. Stan blushes as Georghe mentions how he thought they would just hydroplane before reaching the village. Andrei asks Stan if he wants to stay at the small pension or if he wants to join his friends at their camping site at the caverns. Stan thinks about the mosaic and the four-poster bed and how his wrists tingle under his cuffs.

There are no vehicles on the road and at both sides of it a large field with what looks like to be pasture takes over the whole landscape. As the sun sets, an orange light is cast upon the greenish scenery, dying it golden. Birds fly lazily above their heads and a few meters in front of him, Stan can already spot the pointed roofs of the small buildings disposed of in a circle, smoke coming out of the chimneys and the smell of roasted potatoes lingering in the air. It looks magnificent and he feels cozy.

Stan thinks about Georghe's movements as the ones of a bird of prey, maybe a condor, as he snatches the glasses from his hand. Stan half yelps, half laughs, as Georghe runs away from them, raising dust as he advances to the village. Andrei curses, but Stan can_hear_ his smile in the vibration of his deep voice.

"I'm sorry for letting him drive you here," Andrei shakes his head "I'm glad nothing bad happened to the both of you, driving under such unstable weather, in a road like this… That was highly inconsequent".

"I don't mind," Stan shrugs "I was in there too, it's not like it's his fault. I could've stopped him, but I didn't. So it's my fault too".

"We both know we can't stop Georghe when he's in control, Stanley" Andrei chuckles, winking.

Stan's hands go into his pockets.

"Do you want me to mail you daily reports?".

"Don't feel pressured into doing so," Andrei clears his throat, adjusting his glasses "I think we're past that by now. I trust you and your work, Stanley" Stan feels himself blushing under Andrei's gaze "Besides, you're a grown-ass adult. Don't feel like you need to explain yourself and your choices all the time".

"I don't have to," he mutters under his breath, and Andrei assures him, muttering the same.

"Take your time, Stanley," Andrei has his eyes on him, a penetrating gaze focused on Stan's face "Whenever you're ready".

Stan locks eyes with him and feels his shoulders tensing. There's something comfortable in the way Andrei looks at him, but that's borderline patronizing at the same time. He speaks too loud with barely a mumble and he speaks too much with a little more than a dozen words. Stan wants to run to the golden fields and roll on the floor, staining his jeans.

He handles his notebook to Andrei and answers his small smile with a bright one, teeth in full exposure. Stan squints his eyes, noticing that Georghe is no longer running and runs to him, muscles and tendons stretching at every step, air ruffling his curls. Andrei laughs, amused.

* * *

_ 09:45 pm, Apafi pensiune, Cireșoaia, Romania _

With sweaty hands, Stan tries not to hurt himself.

He looks at his palms and winces at the amount of small waning moons carved lightly by his nails. Andrei's voice sounds like an incoherent bee buzz, almost like a whole hive inhabits Stan's ear canals. He glances at Andrei from where he's sat at the pension's small living room, following with his eyes the motions of Andrei's arm as he speaks on his phone, brows creased. It's dark outside and the grasshoppers are gathered by the building's garden, singing out of tune.

Zsófia wears a dress as yellowish as the night before, but her apron is red this time. Her face is equally red and her eyes are squinted as she laughs, speaking to a tall and thin lady that reminds Stanley of a flamingo. There are lots of papers over the counter and Stan wonders if her archives are organized by date or in alphabetical order. Does she even have an archive file?

Eyeing his cold tea, his mouth goes dry as he suddenly hears Georghe's voice talking to Zsófia. Stan cast his eyes on him, large back covered in an outrageous yellow jumper. It looks comfy but downright ridiculous. The flamingo-lady eyes him while scribbling down on a bunch of papers, and Zsófia's eyes shine as Georghe talks to her, gesturing excitedly. Stan briefly glances at Andrei, noticing that he's approaching Georghe near the balcony, exchanging a brief look with Stan on his way there. Stan, on his part, digs his nails into his palms, jaw clenched. The prospects of being left alone terrify him.

He tries to steady his breath, feeling sweat sliding across his shoulder blades. There are only more three people in the modest living room apart from the quartet gathered by the counter, but it feels crowded. Stan eyes his cup of tea, the cheap white china, wondering if his chamomile tea should be that yellowish. It's bright and _wrong _and the ocher tone left on the white porcelain reminds him of bile stains on his sink.

Stan wants to curl up and cry in his armchair.

He notices _it_ even before his eyes take on _his_ small and wiry frame.

A strong and relaxing smell hit his nostrils and his eyes trail off to the small cabinet at the opposite side of the room. Its glassy lid is open, and a bony pale hand places a slim bottle before sliding the cabinet shut again. He turns to Stanley, but their gazes don't meet. The man is smaller than him, and he looks too thin for his oversized black overcoat. It isn't _that cold_ inside. His curls are dark and fluffy looking and something golden shines on his hand as he raises the small glass to his pursed lips.

Under the coat, Stan notices how monochromatic he looks being that pale and dressed in a white shirt. It looks silky and too thin, maybe a little translucent, and his skin tone mixes with the shirt color in a way that leaves Stan uneasy. Stan eyes move across his torso, noticing how the shirt seems to be of the correct size for his slender frame, taking in his lanky short legs wrapped with tight black slacks, ending in shining black boots. He frowns, eyes darting to the man's eyes, finding them locked on him.

Stan breathes deeply as a numb wave engulfs him.

The knots hurting his shoulders disappears and he leans his body on the comfy chair. The man eyes him with curiosity, head slightly tilted to his side. Stan notices his sharp jawline and delicate nose, puffy lips that look too pink in comparison to his pale and hollow cheekbones. He's pretty and Stan feels the need to just stare, feeling his breath steadying at the same time in which his stomach lurches in a hungry protest.

The man gives him a small smile and Stan blushes when he realizes that he's probably making a displeased face due to the grumbles coming from his belly. He tries to smile back and the man answers him with a bright one, raising his glass. Stan chuckles, itchy fingers touching his intact drink, raising his teacup just a little, suddenly feeling too shy. The man cocks his head to his side, and his smile is sweet,__ too sweet__, and Stan can feel it taking over his taste buds, running over his tongue, filling his mouth with saliva. He shivers and the man chuckles.

It suddenly feels like stepping into a bare wire, electrical impulses taking over his nerve endings, but at the same time, the strong smell of patchouli leaves him light-headed, fingertips and toes going numb. Stan bites his lips, eyes narrowed on the man's hand, the one in which he holds a half-filled glass with a dark red liquid (probably wine). His fingers look delicate but firm. Stanley wants to drink from _his_ glass and hold _his_ hand, fingers brushing on the pale skin. He just wants to reach over and touch that hand, nestle it on his palms and stare, feeling the skin covering _his_ bones.

The man swallows his drink in one gulp, carefully placing the glass on a near table. It's a soft motion, but Stan can hear the exact second in which the glass touches the wood. He shivers, thinking it might break. The man glances at him with an unreadable expression and turns on his heels, leaving through a door Stan didn't notice before.

He feels an urge to yell and to lock himself in his room at the same time.

Stan almost jumps on his seat as Georghe and Andrei suddenly stand in front of him. Georghe handles him a rectangle-shaped object sloppily wrapped in a beige thick paper. Stan blinks a few times and takes it on his hands. His fingers feel numb and trembling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's anyone reading this besides my muses (Marie & Cat) - and if you feel like - leave me a review, I can assure you I'll be really happy to know what you think about this.


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